Under the Harrow: (18 page)

I
THINK I UNDERSTAND
now why people don’t leave when a war comes, why even residents with the means to leave stayed in a city like Sarajevo as danger drew closer. A mixture of disbelief and bargaining. If I stay, the war won’t come.

I could drive to the airport and leave her car in short-stay parking. At an airline desk, I could buy a ticket to a country without an extradition treaty with England.

The police might have placed a travel alert on my passport, but that isn’t what stops me. He stabbed Rachel eleven times. If I leave now, the police will consider it an admission of guilt, and he will never be caught.

I
SEND MYSELF UP
and down the aqueduct. At some point Keith will decide to go for a walk, or he will follow me. I carry pepper spray and the straight razor. The difficult part will be knowing when to stop him. He has to do enough damage for the police to take it seriously, but neither of us is going to die. The detectives must know that he is the violent one, not me, and not to trust anything he has told them.

Along the path, the brambles are shaped into hollow globes, and sparrows fly through them. I walk south toward Oyster Pond.

I have to forgive her or else sacrifice our last six months together. In a way, I don’t entirely blame her. If she wanted to switch, to see what it was like to be the other of us, the one who stayed safely at the party that night, at dinner with my boyfriend. Or she just drank too much and stopped caring. Bitch, I think, and the venom does nothing to how much I miss her.

From part of the aqueduct, you can see the back of her house. The white wooden siding, the chimney, the two sheltering elms. Steam rises from the chimney, like someone is at home, but only because we left the boiler on so the pipes don’t burst.

I wait for her to come outside. Or for Fenno to lunge into view at one of the windows. It hasn’t gotten any easier to believe she’s gone. At Oyster Pond, I test the pepper spray to make sure it isn’t frozen. I do this on every other walk. If he doesn’t come for me soon, it will be all used up.

T
WO CONSTABLES ARE WAITING
for me in front of the Hunters. They’ve seen me before I notice them, they’ve been watching me come down the road. I know the area better than they do. I know places to hide around the aqueduct. The woods are the most dense by Oyster Pond, that’s where I have to go, and I’m plotting this out, waiting for the right moment, but their eyes are fixed on me and I continue toward them. Full of rage, the length of the high street. They’re wasting time. If they had waited a little longer, Keith would have come after me.

They step forward, reading me my rights while opening the door of the patrol car. They don’t use handcuffs. During the drive to Abingdon, I focus on the landscape through the window to stop my throat from closing. They didn’t give me time to change, and I still have pepper spray and the straight razor in my pocket.

The light box sign of the Thames Valley Police appears. Much of it is the same as at other interviews. The room is identical, except one wall is a mirror, behind which other officers can watch us. I’m given a blue tracksuit to change into, and then left to wait in the interview room.

Moretti comes in and says, “Hello, Nora.”

They were rehearsals, I realize now, all the interviews before this one. Moretti was practicing for this. He knows me now, and my weaknesses.

“We found some notes in your room. Is this your handwriting?”

“Yes.”

He starts to read. “‘Harm compounding factors. Psychological damage to victim. Sustained attack on same victim. Use of weapon or weapon equivalent. Significant degree of premeditation.’” He leans back in his chair. “Why do you have the sentencing guidelines for grievous bodily harm?”

“Rachel thought the man who attacked her in Snaith might be caught for doing it again. I thought knowing the prison sentence for a similar crime would help me find him.”

“Or,” he says, “you wanted to know what your punishment might be.”

“No.”

“Where did you scatter her ashes?” he asks.

“Cornwall.”

“Did anyone go with you?”

“No.”

“None of Rachel’s friends or family?”

“No.”

“Why not? Did you ask them?”

“I wanted to be alone.”

He smooths his suit jacket. “Did you ever bring anything onto the ridge? A picnic?”

“No.”

“A witness saw you on the ridge carrying a plastic bag from Whistlestop.”

“That’s not possible.”

“There is a Whistlestop in Paddington station. You told me you’ve made purchases from it. And that particular branch sells Tennent’s Light Ale and Dunhills.”

“Is the witness Keith? He made it up. Either they were his or you showed him photographs.”

Moretti looks at the mirror, as though he wants to be sure someone has heard what I’ve just said. I wonder if I’ve already made a mistake. He remains silent for a moment. The witness must be Keith, or he would contradict me.

“You assembled the scene on the ridge,” he says. “You wanted us to think Rachel had a stalker. Two days after her
murder, you started to worry we might not find it, so you reported it yourself.”

“No.”

“Why were you on the ridge?”

“I wanted to see her house.”

He leaves the room. For a long time I sit with my hands on my lap. They’re watching me somewhere, on a video monitor, a small, still figure staring ahead. It must be meant to make me nervous, but it’s a relief to be alone. They have thirty-six hours to charge me.

His boss, DCI Bristowe, will have to approve. He might be in her office now. I imagine she has been watching us, and I wish she would interview me herself. We’ve never spoken, she can’t be convinced of my guilt. I imagine her in a suit, a coffee on her desk, rubbing her shoulders, wondering if she can go home. It will look bad for her, and her department, to charge two suspects that CPS declines to prosecute.

 • • • 

There isn’t a clock in the interview room. Moretti wears a watch but its face is hidden under his sleeve. I don’t know how much time passes. I look at the mirror to try to see shapes behind it. I listen for sounds in the building, and when I don’t hear any I become frightened that we are the only ones in it.

“Is Lewis here?”

“No. DS Lewis has been suspended.”

“Why?”

“Professional misconduct.”

 • • • 

They don’t let me sleep for very long. It seems like only a few minutes pass between when I enter the cell and when I am back in the room with Moretti. He drinks a tea and doesn’t offer me one.

“Tell me about your relationship with Paul Wheeler.”

I try to hide my surprise, but I’m sure Moretti caught it, a twitch. “We met for the first time a few weeks ago. I think he attacked Rachel in Snaith.”

“He sent you roses.”

“He was harassing me. He sent the flowers to scare me.”

“Have you given Paul Wheeler any gifts? Have you lent or given him money?”

“No.”

“What are the terms of your agreement?”

“We don’t have an agreement.”

Moretti stands and stretches. There are wrinkles on the back of his suit jacket. “Nothing you did with Lewis was illegal,” he says, “but a jury will want to know why you slept with a case detective so soon after the murder.”

 • • • 

Later, he pulls a sheet of paper toward him and lowers his head to read. “‘I’m unhappy. I don’t feel like myself. I’m scared this won’t go away.’” He continues, and I lean forward, my hands twisting on my lap. He’s reading my psychologist’s notes. I thought they were sealed.

Moretti finishes reading and we sit with the paper on the table between us. “When you found out that Rachel caused so much unhappiness, you must have been very angry with her.”

“I didn’t know about Liam until you told me.”

He looks again at the mirror. Moretti still hasn’t mentioned the weapon. If the murderer used a knife from her house, my fingerprints might be on it. I’ve cooked using those knives.

A
DUTY SOLICITOR
COMES
to see me. She introduces herself as Amrita Ghosh. “Have I been charged?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “I’m here to explain what might happen next.”

Her voice is candid and direct, and she meets my eyes. I can’t tell if she thinks I’m guilty. I suppose she might not have an opinion. She is here to share general information, not offer me advice. She might not have reviewed the case in any detail.

She starts with what I already know. After my arrest, the police have thirty-six hours before they must either charge or release me. If I am released, the police will likely continue to consider me as a suspect and to build the case against me, unless new evidence eliminates me.

The solicitor doesn’t do anything to confuse me. She never asks how I am coping. She makes it clear that she is a neutral party. If I am charged, I will remain in custody while an Oxfordshire prosecutor decides if the evidence against me is strong enough to move to trial. If it is, I will appear before a magistrate to enter a plea. If I plead guilty, negotiations will begin between my defense counsel and the prosecutor. If I plead not guilty, the magistrate will either set bail or remand me into custody until the trial.

“It is my duty to tell you that there is a sentence reduction for a guilty plea. The prosecutor might also adjust the charge from murder to manslaughter. It depends on the details of the offense.”

“What’s the average length of time in prison after a guilty manslaughter plea?”

“Three years.”

“What’s the average if you plead not guilty to murder and are convicted?”

“Twenty years.”

She holds my eyes. I don’t think she believes I’m innocent.

 • • • 

The difference between being released at thirty-three or forty-nine.

I won’t do well in cross-examination. At York Crown Court some defendants remained composed and patient. Others became emotional, to the jury’s distaste. The juries appeared to prefer when defendants kept calm, and I won’t be able to.

The visit from the duty solicitor was not about due process, it was the first application of pressure. They could have waited until I was charged, but they want to be sure I have time before the magistrate’s hearing to consider it. Three or twenty years.

“
A
RE YOU TIRED?”
he asks.

“Yes.”

He smiles at me. For a moment I think he will let me go. The silence stretches between us.

“Your fingerprints are on the banister post.”

I watch his expression closely. “Which one?”

“The one you tied the dog’s lead around.”

“I must have touched it on a different visit.”

“They’re close to the ground. To reach there, you would have had to kneel on the floor.” He straightens his tie. “One of the prints is in the dog’s blood.”

“Show me a photograph of it.”

He leaves the room. My breathing turns loud and ragged. I can’t remember if detectives are allowed to lie during an interview. It’s such a huge point of law, I can’t believe I don’t know it. He might be allowed to say anything.

The minutes stretch on. I try to stare through the black mirror, and my reflection is appalled and ashen. He wants to retire. How important is it to him to leave after a success? I never considered it before.

I didn’t touch the banister post that day, but I did touch the dog. I put my hand against his side while he was hanging. I knew he was dead, but I still wanted to comfort him.

I must have left fingerprints somewhere else in the house. All he would have to do is change the label on where the print was found. The house has been industrially cleaned now. I won’t be able to prove him wrong.

M
ORETTI DOESN’T RETURN,
and a constable leads me to the cell.

He’s fitting me up. When I asked about the defensive injuries, he shrugged. He might decide to remember a scratch or a bruise on me.

I don’t sleep. Instead I pretend to be a juror, listening to the evidence and the witnesses. I don’t know if it will be clear that the police are crooked, or if something about me will make it easy for them to believe.

 • • • 

A constable unlocks the door and says, “Follow me, please.”

Sunlight falls over us as we walk down the corridor. It must be Thursday morning. I can’t tell from her face if in a few minutes she will charge or release me.

An officer hands me my clothes and bag. Moretti isn’t in the room. I wonder if he’s watching on a monitor somewhere else in the building. I’m not being charged. He must have lied about the prints on the banister.

I hurry away from the police station. The morning is cool and damp, the sun behind a scrim of gray cloud. Giddiness bursts up my legs and into my chest. I dig my nails into the sides of my arms, sailing down the road.

By the time I reach Marlow, the Emerald Gate has opened. I order scallion pancakes, chow fun, and dumplings. I eat greedily, tearing the pancakes with my hands, scooping mouthfuls of food. While I eat, I don’t think of anything but how it tastes.

After the bowls are scraped clean, I lean back in my chair and look out the window and wonder what I am supposed to do next.

At the station last night I started to make plans. I didn’t mean to, but couldn’t help it. Plans to travel. To sleep rough.

I
RETURN TO
the Hunters to pack my things. Tonight I will stay with Martha in London, and the thought makes me heavy with relief.

Before I stow my laptop, I open it on the bed. The screen brightens. I haven’t checked his name in over a week, since before Cornwall.

 • • • 

Paul Wheeler violated his parole. Over the weekend he assaulted a woman in Holbeck, South Leeds. Milly Athill. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. He followed her into her home. The charge against him will be much more severe this time. He committed the crime while he was on probation, and it’s a repeat offense. It was a sustained attack on one victim. The prosecutor will likely be able to prove psychological damage to the victim.

Her brother was upstairs, by chance, and he and Milly were able to overpower Paul.

The maximum sentence for grievous bodily harm is life imprisonment, and the solicitor interviewed for the article expects him to receive that or close to it.

Is that enough? I ask Rachel. Is it over?

 • • • 

I speak to Lewis. Moretti had a trace on my car, apparently, the day I went to his house. He’s in Brighton now, and he tells me about his flat. You can see the channel from every room, he says, even the bathroom. He says that after a constable told
him I’d been released, he ate chips and vinegar on the beach to celebrate. He asks if I want to come visit and I say yes, soon.

I look down at the article again. “Would anyone know you’ve been suspended yet? If, for example, you called a prison and asked to speak to an inmate.”

 • • • 

I walk through Marlow while waiting for his call. Down Meeting House Lane, down Redgate. Past the church, past the firehouse, past the tennis court. I’m on the common, facing the village hall, when Lewis calls.

“I spoke to Paul Wheeler,” he says, and his voice is careful and measured. “He says Rachel was his girlfriend.”

My eyes skitter away, and it looks like the clock is falling out of the village hall.

“It sounds like they only went out a few times, when she was a teenager. He said he hated his name, he always told girls he was called Clive. She wouldn’t have been able to find him. He didn’t admit to the assault, but he said they had an argument, and soon after he moved to Newcastle for work.”

“Is he making it up?”

“He said he gave her a mask. Does that sound familiar?”

The white carnival mask, with a curved beak. She hung it on the wall in her room.

“She probably thought the police would consider the crime more seriously if it were a stranger.”

“But why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“It happens,” he says. “Victims often don’t tell their families when they knew the person who beat or raped them.”

After the call ends, I sit on a bench under the yews and turn my face up to the thrashing branches. The wind roars, growing louder and louder.

I remember what happened at the Cross Keys now. The red half-height doors of the toilets. I didn’t go in with a man, I went in with Rachel. I had barely seen her all night. And she said, “I’ve been talking to someone. I think I’ve met someone.”

 • • • 

I know what Lewis meant. If she told me she knew him, she wouldn’t be able to forgive me if, for even a second, I suggested it was somehow her fault.

But I don’t understand why she thought I would have.

 • • • 

After some time, I leave the common and return to my room to finish packing. Milly Athill. Before closing the laptop, I search through the other articles about Paul Wheeler and finally find the name in one of the first reports after the crime that sent him to prison. Before the assault, the victim was at a pub with her best friend, Milly.

Her brother was upstairs at the time. He’s a rugby player who lives in Dublin, but he happened to be at her house. What a coincidence.

I always wondered why the police don’t use bait more often. Apparently so did they.

 • • • 

“Are you checking out?” the manager asks hopefully.

“Yes.”

She charges me for the night I spent in jail.